


Eidolon

by Lacinia



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacinia/pseuds/Lacinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No mistakes that can't be fixed, no responsibilities that can't be borne, and love unbetrayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eidolon

**Author's Note:**

> See notes at end for trigger warnings.

Twelve years ago, the Agency sent you to recruit at the college where Bruce was working.  Not your usual job, but you’d broken your femur and were off field work for the better part of a year. 

You’d hobbled up and down campus, discreetly checking up on promising students, and he’d asked what you were up to, and also, did you need to sit down?  “Headhunting,” you said, and “please.”  Sweat was starting to bead on your forehead, and your underarms ached from the crutches. 

He poured you a glass of water.  “Your bosses are assholes,” he says, motioning at the cast, but not asking what happened. 

“Quotas,” you said, “but you’re not wrong.”

Your superiors wanted to be able to draw on Bruce’s expertise, but your report said he was too much of an independent thinker, too distrustful of authority, too smart to swallow cover stories to successfully recruit. 

You married him, instead.

 

 

You are eating breakfast with Bruce, very early in the morning.  Next to the kitchen island is a packed duffel bag.  The car will be here in seventeen minutes. 

“Are you going into work today?” you ask.  It’s his day off, but he often heads to the lab anyways.  But you aren’t exactly in any position to criticize him for being a workaholic. 

He grimaces.  “We’ve been having some problems with the gamma emitter.”

“And nobody else can fix it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.  Workaholic.

“Not unless I want to blow the rest of my budget on a company technician.”

“Well, luckily you’re a genius.”

“Luckily,” he agrees, mildly.  You tease him about this all the time: how he was eight when he tested into Mensa, fifteen when he went to Stanford, and he still can’t remember where he put his damn keys. 

You glance at the clock.  Fourteen minutes. 

You stand up.  “I have to go.”  You’ve already factored in the time required for goodbyes. 

“When will you come back?” he asks, not expecting much of an answer. 

You bite the side of your cheek.  “Depends,” you say.

“Be safe,” he says, softly.

“I always am,” you promise, and hold his unshaven chin in the crook of your hand.  “Have good science,” you say, and lean in to peck him on the cheek.  “Don’t cheat on me with one of your grad students,” you whisper into his ear.

“I can’t imagine why I would,” he says back. 

 

 

You get back early, and sit at the kitchen island eating leftovers while looking over a week’s worth of newspapers.  When you hear keys in the door, you look up, pulling off your reading glasses.

“Hey,” he says, keys on the counter.  “I didn’t expect you for a while.”

“I finished the mission up early,” you say, and lay a finger across your lips.  You hold your hands together, as though around a ball, and then pull them apart, fingers outstretched.  _Boom_ , you mouth.

The corner of his mouth twitches up helplessly.  He likes, rather despite himself, how good you are at what you do.

“Is Rose with you?” you ask.

“She’s in the car,” he says, and she bursts in a moment later.

You call your daughter Rosa when you speak Russian, which isn’t often anymore.  She has dark, curling hair, lighter than her father’s.  Something around her eyes reminds you of your mother, Sofia.  Her laugh is definitely Alian’s. 

At the CIA you partner with Clint and Phil.  You’re friends with Jimmy and Jasper, the other guys in your division, and even Maria, the head.  You respect Fury, the director.

You come home to your family that you love.  Your life is perfect.

So why do you—

You are so, so happy.  You love them so much.  Isn’t that enough?

You can’t remember your mother’s face—

You have an anniversary coming up; the three of you are going to Hawaii.  You’ve never seen a volcano before, and the pictures of the resort are stunning. 

And why do you remember—

Last year, on your birthday, your daughter baked you a cake, but when Bruce’s back was turned she’d spilled too much salt in.  She’d been upset, but you’d smiled, eaten a slice anyways, told her it wasn’t that bad. 

_Rose died_ , you interrupt.  She withered in your womb, and Bruce was never her father.

Everything dissolves into white, and you lunge for her anyways, your false daughter, but she’s gone.  A new set of truths establish themselves in your mind.

You were the prima ballerina of the Moscow troupe, and you were on tour in New York when you decided to stay. 

_Wait_ , you say, and the world falls to pieces.

The FBI recruited you out of college.  You have a medal in your safe, you work in DC.  You have never had to kill a man with your own hand.

_That’s not—_ and your life shatters.

Your name is Natalya Ivanova Petrova, and you were born in Stalingrad during the siege.  You are now a very old woman, and you spoil your grandchildren terribly.  You very rarely talk about the past.

_This won’t make me happy,_ you say.  You sense a puzzlement, a vast intelligence struggling to understand you.  A new scenario appears.

There are two doors in front of you.  Behind one you are loved, and you are safe, and no one will ever ask more of you than you can give.  Is reality really so wonderful?

_I’m not so weak,_ you say, _as to accept a fantasy for the rest of my life._

It doesn’t have to be forever.  Just as long as you need. 

You put your hand on the other door.

You can come back anytime you want. 

You pause for a second on the threshold.  _Why?,_ you ask.

The world tilts, sickeningly.  You are shown another world, but this time, you think, it may be real. 

You are born on a faraway planet.  You design a marvelous engine: a device that will show its user beautiful, wondrous things.  You send it out into the stars—a gift. 

You do not expect that when it is accidentally activated by a human being of altered physiology, the specially chiseled fracture points in her memory-identity matrix will prevent her from understanding that the machine produces illusions, only dreams.

You never mean to cause anyone harm. 

You pause for a moment to take that in, then realize it doesn’t make any difference.  You step through the door. 

You open your eyes to a white ceiling and fluorescent lights.  Medical. 

“You’re awake!” Pepper says.  “Everybody was so worried.”

“Where’s Bruce?” you asks, voice sleep-harsh. 

Pepper’s forehead crinkles.  “Um, still in Montana, I think.  Why?”

You push intimate memories out of your mind, shake the thoughtless impulse to turn to him.  He’s not even your friend.  “How long have I been out?” you ask instead.

“A couple of days.  Tony’s been analyzing the machine, but he wasn’t making any headway.  We weren’t sure you—.”  She breaks off.  “I’m glad you’re up.  I’ll get Clint.”

“He’s here?” you say, sharper than you mean to.  He’s on leave, the last place in the world he should be is on the helicarrier. 

“We figured you shouldn’t be alone,” Pepper says, softly.

You gather yourself, breathe.  “You don’t have to be here.”  She’s a busy woman, and furthermore, you know she hasn’t forgiven you for fooling her so easily.  Undercover operations are one of your specialties; you’re used to the anger they leave in their wake.

You carefully lever yourself out of the bed, and draw out the IVs with practiced precision.  You take a long look at the machine lying next to the hospital bed—not much of a thing, now that it’s been powered down.  Long, tentacle-like cables trail to the pillow.  “Someone should incinerate this,” you say.

 

 

“I was worried about you,” Clint says, elbows on knees, eyes on the floor. 

“I’m okay,” you say.  “I was just unconscious,” you lie.  You can’t burden him with this, you can’t ever let him know that world where Bobbi and Phil are still alive is just a few decks away, sitting in storage.  “Take the next jet out.  You don’t need to be here.”

He nods absently.

“Go home,” you repeat, but gently.  You don’t touch him. 

More than anything, you want him off this boat.  The last time he was here, he threw up in the toilet after you told him that Bobbi was caught in the explosion of engine 2 and Phil bled out in special containment.

His very real anguish is more important than…whatever you are feeling.  You are a big girl; you don’t need your hand held.  You can handle this. 

You don’t miss a life you never had.

**Author's Note:**

> Includes mind control/false memories, plus a romantic/sexual relationship that occurs under these circumstances.


End file.
